


under the skin, against the skull

by touchydynamite



Category: Among Us (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Descent into Madness, Disassociation, Gen, Illnesses, Murder, Nail Trauma, Non-binary character, Parasites, Tooth Removal, Transformation, Vomiting, copious sibilance, god what is it with me and tooth trauma, someone gets killed in electrical, turning into an imposter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26897245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchydynamite/pseuds/touchydynamite
Summary: cyan - who used to have a name, but isn't sure what it is, now, isn't sure who they are - has something growing inside them.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	under the skin, against the skull

**Author's Note:**

> barely edited, barely proofread. got kind of into the idea of imposters as parasitic infections so like here you go. tw for tooth trauma, nail trauma, murder, and fugue states.

cyan - who used to have a name, but isn't sure what it is, now, isn't sure who they are - has something growing inside them. 

not like the flowers on old earth, spiralling out of the ground to bloom in a thousand colours. not even like the ivy, creeping up walls of bombed out building shells on the outskirts, nature eating what humans left behind. those things are pretty, were pretty, explosions of petals and leaves and stems. 

this isn't pretty. 

they throw up twice, the morning they realise something is wrong. they should be down in communications, but they wake up late, and their stomach roils and their head throbs and they rush into the bathroom attached to their cabin and turn themselves inside out over the bowl. when they lift their head, the inside of their mouth tastes like acid. they flush, and it swirls away. turning to the mirror above the sink, their face - sometimes they forget what they look like; they wear the helmet because they have to, because it keeps their breath in their lungs, but behind the visor, their eyes could be anything from blue to bright bright red - doesn't look right. 

purpling bruises under their eyes. sallow and sickly, and they don't know when their collarbones got that sharp, when they turned into a set of angles and lines rather than a human face. when they eat, it's never enough. 

their stomach turns again. they spit blood into the sink. a tooth comes out with it. it doesn't hurt as much as it should. they poke at the space where it used to be, and there's something hard under the gum, something pointed. lifting their lip, they can't see any change, but they can feel it.

the tooth rattles down the sink, deep into the pipes and bowels of the ship. 

it isn't pretty. they look awful and empty and hollow. running a hand through their hair, they aren't surprised when loose strands of it pull away from their scalp - it used to be vivid blue, but at the tips, it's turning grey. 

for days - or minutes, or weeks, or years - they wander through the ship, dazed, head full of fog. when crewmates try to get their attention, pink going through xir clipboard of notes on the reactor, or green chewing the end off a pen because she can't figure out why the dials in electrical are doing what they're doing, it takes one, two, three calls of their name, for their ears to pick it up. tinnitus rings through their skull, like their brain's a bell struck by a hammer. 

and then, after they've lost three more teeth, and two fingernails - the nails peeled away from the beds, leaving bright red dripping streaks down their fingers, but they pain they were waiting for didn't come - the squirming starts. 

lying in bed, a book propped against their knees, though they can't make out the words, they glance at their stomach. 

something moves, under their skin. squirming, slithering, writhing, pushing up against the skin as if it's trying to escape, Something. they can't feel it. it's better, if they can't feel it. before it, they couldn't stand it in pulpy old earth movies, when the parasite moved and bubbled inside its host. now, they're far, far away. their vision swims, when they stand up. they rest their palm flat over where whatever's living in their organs moves like maggots feeding on rot, and it isn't disgust that they feel. 

and whatever it is inside them grows. sometimes, the squirming feeling slithers through their arms. sometimes it settles in their stomach acid. they eat more. they have an inkling that it needs nutrition more than they do. 

red begins to suspect something. cyan doesn't know what he suspects. the squirming under their skin grows more insistent, whispering in the dark.

in electrical, they work on the lights - they keep flickering on and off, turning the ship into a yawning maw of shadows, and cyan can't stop thinking about hieronymous bosch - and red keeps turning to look at them. every time there's a spark, or the pipes groan above the two of them, his head snaps to one side, and then back to his task. to one side, and then back. cyan chews on the inside of their own mouth with their new teeth, which are pointed, curved like scythes, needle-sharp. skin comes away, and they taste their own blood. 

"cyan," that stopped sounding like their name a week ago. they don't know what it is, now, "is there something going on, with you?" 

"hm?" dreamy. floaty. it feels like they're floating, but not in the anti-grav, nausea-inducing, scientific way. it's as if they haven't had enough sleep, so their body is on autopilot, where their mind is somewhere else. the writhing feeling grows in their stomach, skin distending with whatever is a part of them, now. 

"you seem kinda," red clicks a few times, like he does when he's trying to think through a problem, or pin down the core of an issue, "kinda vacant, i guess?" 

"oh." cyan twists the wrench, adjusting, and fixing. they guess they twist it too hard, because what they're working on breaks, sparks spilling out of the break in the polymer tubing - the squirming feeling calms, sated, and they realise what they have to do, now. "i'm not getting enough sleep." they say. it seems to calm him. he turns back to his work. 

cyan hefts the wrench. 

bringing it down is the easiest thing in the world. they put all of their strength into it, and it feels right, and true, and as close to god at they will ever get. there's a crack and a splatter as the metal connects with his skull, and he collapses to the floor like a sack of stones. blood explodes out of his skin, spraying up cyan's suit. sparks gush out of pipes behind them. 

cyan has something growing inside them. the something has teeth, and a tongue, and it can smell blood on their air. 

cyan has something growing inside them. and it is Hungry.


End file.
